ghosts that we knew
by kougyokus
Summary: Now, Ja'far's mind has become a melting pot of Before and After, with only the divider of Sinbad to separate who he was and who he is. Sometimes, Sinbad isn't enough to separate the two. - fixed since the last one got messed up -


Ja'far remembers his childhood with vivid clarity: the scrape of metal against the inside of his thighs, the heat flashes as he brought his arms down in a wide arc onto his victims, the blood stained on his palms like a fungus, spreading through his skin until Ja'far couldn't differentiate between their blood and his. At nine, he had found himself imprinted with the thick stench of death like shackles on his wrists, and couldn't find the desire to do anything but embrace it like a religion, press his heels into the ground and smash curses into the air like mild hymns until he learned it was much better to play his part than concern himself with the past.

But slowly, with the intensity of the very blades he kept tucked against his arms like a rosary, the images that he had once kept like tumors blurred into thick strands of purple hair, the heady smell of perfume, the crinkle of wild eyes as teeth outstretched into a smile. The feeling of fingers in his hair, not pulling but almost petting, soft as a shipwreck. The blood on his hands became tears, almost comically large, bubbling and boiling over until all Ja'far can remember is kneeling before Sinbad in piety, head touching the ground, water smattering across the sand beneath his feet like the drops of blood he cleaned from his blades after a night well done.

Now, his mind has become a melting pot of Before and After, with only the divider of Sinbad to separate who he was and who he is. Sometimes, Sinbad isn't enough to separate the two. Sometimes, he can still remember fragments of his victim's faces but most days, the details mix with the bright image of Sinbad's eyes, bright and sly, hand outstretched and bruised.

He wonders if this means he's going soft or if it means he'll always mix love with violence, a remnant of a prayer that had been instilled in him like a birthmark.

"Ja'far?"

He doesn't jump except for a twitch in his eyebrow, carefully reorganizing the scrolls on his desk. Sinbad's footsteps are loud and Ja'far knows he does it on purpose, a simple gesture to keep him at ease. "Yes?"

"You look like you're thinking far too much," Sinbad says, taking a seat. He always walks into the office uninvited, perches himself on Ja'far desk like it's his throne, presses his hands into the wood the way he would against a weapon or a woman. The effect is obvious; Sinbad's presence swells like a balloon until you can't help but feel you are being given permission to sit in your own chair. "It's alarming."

"Someone has to," Ja'far replies absently, too busy staring at the way Sinbad's fingers curl around the edge of the table and imagining it curled in his own small hand from when he was a child, pulling him up from the ground with the steadiness of a boy who had seen too much and moved forward anyway.

Sinbad frowns, glancing down at himself before moving his hand to reach for Ja'far's chin, turning his face left and right.

"Are you ill? No scathing remark? No papers for me to sign?"

"I'm not a slave driver," Ja'far says crossly, allowing himself to be touched only for a moment before pulling his head away. Sinbad laughs and the sound takes up the room.

"No, just a doting advisor who deserves a day off."

"Unlikely," Ja'far sniffs, turning to watch his attendants scramble left and right, purposefully trying to avoid his calculated gaze. "I'd much rather work than sit around all night drinking and eating."

"Which I'll never understand," Sinbad groans, absently running his fingers through the end of his ponytail. Ja'far bites back the usual quip about how he's getting too old to have his hair so long, for nostalgia's sake. "Come enjoy yourself with the rest of us; even Drakon is coming."

Ja'far opens his mouth to refuse but finds himself returning to the memory of Sinbad's hand, then calloused from fishing lines and now calloused from the handle of a metal vessel, against his smooth skin. How his hands had touched his hair with the gentle graze of a parent until it changed to the soft slide of a lover's and even more still, to the clench of a man with the world on his shoulders. How Ja'far's hands on Sinbad have always been sullied, the insides of his fingernails gilded with blood, even as he scrubbed his skin raw. How now his fingers itch for the feeling of pen against parchment and yet still, in the dark when he can't bring himself to fall asleep, he remembers the quiver that spread across his spine when his blades sunk into a target and craves.

"Fine," he sighs, pushing himself away from the desk. Sinbad jumps to his feet, mouth open and gaping.

"Truly? We have to leave now before you change your mind," Sinbad grabs him by the waist and drags him up with practiced ease. Ja'far feels the imprint on his hand through his robes like a brand and relishes in it.

"I won't change my mind if you behave." And Sinbad laughs but keeps his hand on Ja'far's hipbone like a lifeline even as they walk out of the room, and Ja'far, despite himself, leaves it be.


End file.
